1.

The first kiss, the kiss that made her head spin and took her breath away and made her giggle to herself as she curled up in bed last night, happened when she was angry. Properly furious. And he knew it. She was at 221b Baker Street, just two weeks after she had first met that mysterious, beautiful man. She knew she was being stupid, that it was probably nothing, that he certainly would never be interested in her, but she took more care than usual with her hair, and if she was wearing lipstick, well, she was just having good grooming, that was it.

She didn't know what she expected to happen. Certainly not that an oxygen mask would be shoved over her face, she would be told, "sit there and DON'T MOVE," she would grow light headed and faint, wake up to find that Sherlock had barely noticed, and then be scolded for apparently ruining a very important experiment. An experiment. That was all she was.

She got up, trying not to cry, and headed for the door.

"Molly. Molly, wait."

That voice. That voice with the ability to suck her back in. "What?" She was crying for real then, crying because she wasn't anything more than a test subject.

But then she felt a tickle against her cheek and realized that Sherlock Holmes had kissed her.

"I'm sorry."

She grabbed her coat, the one she had so carefully pressed that day, and stormed out. She was so stupid. And she fell for him every time.

2.

The second kiss was out of excitement and nothing more. She was staying late at the morgue, telling herself she was there to get some work done, but mostly just there for Sherlock. After all, someone needed to be down there with him, or there was no telling what he might do.

He was bending over a body now, muttering to himself. He had grown increasingly frustrated as the day went on, and sweat appeared on his forehead.

"It just won't make sense!" he cried. "The victim can't have been poisoned, but there are no other marks on him. No signs of strangulation, no internal bleeding, nothing to remotely cause death. It can't possibly be suicide, and we've crossed out all possible drugs. What IS it?"

"Arsenic trioxide?" Molly suggested. She kicked herself the moment the words were out of her mouth. It was such a simple answer, surely Sherlock would have already thought of it. She could hear his mocking words now. Arsenic trioxide? Do you think I'm as stupid as all that? Of COURSE I've considered arsenic trioxide.

"What?"

"Um…no, I'm sorry, don't let me interrupt you."

"No, no. You said arsenic. Why did you say arsenic?"

"Well, I learned that it dissolves in the bloodstream, making it virtually undetectable. And it's odorless and tasteless. I don't know, it was just a guess," she said hesitantly, bracing herself for whatever Sherlock might say.

"Arsenic," Sherlock breathed. "ARSENIC! It's so SIMPLE!" He slapped himself on the forehead. "Good Lord, I'm idiotic. Arsenic! That must be it! I'll run more tests!"

Molly smiled. "Well, I'm glad you've found it."

"So am I, oh so am I!" He rushed out of the lab, but not before grabbing Molly by the shoulders and planting a kiss on her lips. "Simply idiotic!"

Molly was left staring after him. The moment when she finally won the approval of Sherlock Holmes stuck with her for a long time.

3.

The third time was once again at the morgue. Sherlock had come alone, and this time, he was smiling at her. She hated when she did that. He had such a disarming smile. When he wore it, he had complete and utter control over her, and he knew it.
"Hello, Molly," he said. Not, "Molly, stop wasting time," or "Molly, fetch me that," or "Molly, that color will never suit you." Just "Hello, Molly."

She said hello back.

"You look lovely today."

She blushed and then kicked herself mentally. Idiot. "Thank you," she said. She almost blurted out, "So do you!" but caught herself in time. "Thank you."

"You know, I was thinking, I've realized you've liked me for quite a while now, and I was just thinking, well, I'm often quite bored, as you realize, and perhaps, just maybe, we could go out sometime."

"We what?" Molly couldn't even think to make a decent response. Her and Sherlock Holmes. It was happening. It was now. And all she could say was, "What?"

"So, new boyfriend, hmm?"

She laughed ruefully. "Not anymore." Jim. Wonderful, sweet, Jim. Gay Jim.

"Ah, I see. Tell me, do you know anything about him?"

"Yeah, of course I do." What was he after?

"Good, good. Just trying to keep you safe. And I wanted to say, I said some pretty nasty to things to you the other day—about Jim. I'm sorry. I just wanted to

"No, it's fine. We've broken up anyway."

His face seemed to light up from the inside.

"Thank you Molly, you've been very helpful. I suppose I'll see you around sometime. And I must say, I'm looking forward to it." He leant down and brushed his lips against her cheek.

It was only much later that evening that she realized he had never said he liked her back.

4.

The fourth time was at Christmas. She had tried so hard for him. She bought him a pair of gloves, and they cost far too much, but for him it would be worth it. She had wrapped them, and went to the party full of nervousness and shivers and hope.

And he had cut her down. Just like that, with a few simple words full of mocking and ridicule. And that was that. Her wonderful evening ruined. And it was all thanks to Sherlock Holmes, the one man who she wanted so desperately to impress.

He turned away from her, smirking, so pleased with himself, and she couldn't take it anymore.

"You always say such horrible things." Her voice. That was her voice. "Every time. Always. Always."

He was looking uncomfortable then. His head was lowered. Good, she thought. But not good. Because no matter how much he hurt her, she could never hurt him.

"I am sorry. Forgive me."

He walked towards her, and she wanted to run. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

And he kissed her. In front of everybody, he kissed her again. The fourth time.

What had she done? Oh God, what had she done? It wasn't supposed to be like that, Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to apologize to her!

The rest of the evening progressed. He liked the gloves, and he said so. She smiled and said she was glad, but internally she was breaking down into a million little pieces, tread on by a self proclaimed psychopath with no sense of the pain he was causing.

5

The last time was a thank you kiss. And it never actually happened.

It was after that horrible day, the day where everything had to go perfectly, and if it didn't—she didn't even want to think about it. He was safe now, they were both safe. That was what mattered.

They were standing in the morgue, alone, waiting for the truck to come that would deliver him to safety.

It was that day when he said he needed her. And it was that day when he kissed her for the last time.

Or at least he tried to. He leaned down, closer, and closer, and-

"No," she said, and put a finger to his lips. "Not this time." What was she saying? She loved him. She loved everything he was.

She loved the idea of him. That's what it was. She loved a shadow, not the broken and torn man standing before.

"Maybe," she said, "Maybe sometime. I have a life too, you know."

She had never really thought about it that way. Her life was Jim, her life was the morgue, her life was Sherlock, her life was her parents and her sister and everyone else. Not her. Never her.

It was funny, she thought. She finally got what she wanted. She had him standing there, ready to kiss her, ready to begin an entirely new life.

But you know what? Maybe it was time for her new life to begin too. She smiled, sighed, and turned on her heel. She walked away, leaving him standing there, looking after her. Their roles were reversed. Everything had come full circle. It was the end.

The lights in the morgue went out.